


Down to the Green

by Nefhiriel



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt Neal, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter Burke, of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, is finally in town to put a stop to a string of train robberies – with the help of Neal Caffrey, former outlaw, confidence man, and gambler extraordinaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down to the Green

**Author's Note:**

>   
> _“Down to the green” def. (poker term): When a player has gone all in._
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful Imbecamiel.  
> 

“I trust you, Burke. Even if you weren't with the Pinkertons now, your record as a sheriff speaks for itself.”

Peter shrugged into his jacket, resting a hand over the familiar outline of his pistol—primed, loaded, and ready to glide free of its holster. “But you still have your doubts.”

“Tom trusts me,” said a third man, resting a hand on his friend's shoulder, his voice a certain as the other's was hesitant. “And I trust you, Peter. I've seen for myself that you’re not one to let a man down.”

“What about _him_?” Tom hissed, nodding towards the other side of the narrow room. Higgins might respect Robert Merriman, but as mayor he didn't appreciate his opinion being overruled too easily.

Peter followed his gaze towards the “him” in question. Neal was checking the finishing details of his wardrobe in the reflection of a floor-length mirror, and looking predictably pleased with the fine cut of the clothes he wore.

“Caffrey's one of us,” Peter assured them.

“But can you really entrust something of this magnitude to the discretion of a criminal?” Higgins protested, conveniently forgetting to lower his voice this time. “A swindler who has himself robbed people with his schemes and forgeries?”

“Actually,” Peter observed dryly, “he prefers the term 'confidence man.' And I have to say, I see his point. The word 'swindler' just lacks the same polish.” He shrugged. “I can understand the professional pride behind it, even if I don't respect the profession.”

Merriman smiled. Higgins scowled.

Peter wished not for the first time that he could work on this solely with Merriman. Back in the day, Merriman had briefly been his deputy sheriff—another town, and another lifetime ago, for both of them. But the dust, sweat, and blood required to combat everyday cowboy justice, or the force of enraged lynch mobs, had a way of testing the loyalty between men who tried for law and order in the midst of it all. Through everything they'd faced together Peter had never found Rob's integrity wanting. New York City, his headquarters and home these days, was a long way from these small but growing boomtowns of Nevada, and in the middle of a critical operation like this Peter would take every familiar, dependable face he could get.

A far as faces of any kind went, Peter hadn't been finding much in Mayor Tom Higgins' to give him confidence. The look Higgins had given Jones—judgment, in an open stare of disapproval—had sealed Peter's _dislike_ for him, at the very least. Peter would've chosen Jones over Higgins, especially when it came to trusting a man to watch his back, any day of the week.

“Caffrey has helped our agents on more cases than I can say,” Peter continued more seriously, for the sake of appeasing Higgins. “He's good at what he does precisely because of his history as a criminal. If anyone can figure out who our train robbers are, it's Caffrey. He knows the way men like this think.”

“That's what worries me,” Higgins grumbled. “A _confidence man_ , is he? If you ask me they're all no good, four-flushing sharpers—fancy terms, and 'professional pride,' be hanged.” There was something in his tone that suggested “hanged” was the only thing he thought Caffrey was fit to be, at all.

Peter had a sentiment or two regarding what Higgins was fit for, but he kept it to himself, and his expression remained neutral. He'd had plenty of practice dealing with people he didn't see eye-to-eye with. That didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

“You don't have to agree with my methods, Mr. Higgins. But if I'm going to find these men for you, you're going to have to let me draw them out my own way.”

Ever the peacemaker, Merriman inserted cheerfully, “Sound good by me, Peter. What do you say, Tom?”

Higgins nodded unhappily.

“Then let's do this, gentleman.”

At Peter's words, Neal turned from the mirror with a grin, giving a last tug to his red silk vest and making a showy affair out of donning his ridiculously narrow-crowned, flat-brimmed hat. Cocking said hat casually askew with a forefinger, Caffrey motioned politely for Higgins to exit first, impervious in the face of the mayor's hard stare, or the noises of disgruntlement he made on his way out. Neal met Peter's eye, nodding a salute with just enough sobriety to reassure Peter that underneath all the bravado Caffrey was on their side, and regarding this situation with appropriate gravity.

***

“That's a lot of players,” Jones commented with a small shake of his head. “I hope Caffrey's up for this.”

“Look at him,” Peter nodded towards where Neal was seated at the poker table. Even from across the bustling and smoky saloon, it was easy to mark his smirk. He looked like he'd already won. “He's up for this, Jones. He's always up for _this_.”

Jones made a soft noise of agreement. “But can he find him? Half the men at that table fit the description we have of Bell. Average height, average build, brown hair...”

“If Bell's here, Neal will draw him out.”

First, however, Neal's job was simply to whittle down the opposition. Peter had witnessed Neal's poker tactics often enough to recognize that, despite his swagger, he was starting this round off by going for understatement. Repeated calls of “check” drifted towards the corner where he and Jones had staked out a table. Neal raked in a few minor hands, but didn't try anything too daring. Peter couldn't catch the specifics of much of the conversation drifting between the players, but he could see that Neal wasn't holding back in that regard.

The saloon girls were drawn to Neal like moths to flame. It wasn't the first time Peter had observed the phenomenon, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last time, either. One of the them—a tall, singularly quiet woman, with watchful brown eyes—kept a hand on his shoulder in a way that seemed less flirtatious than truly encouraging. At a glance, she could almost have been Kate Moreau, back to playing Caffrey's partner in crime. That was one deceptively sweet face that had put more than a few lawmen off the scent.

This lot was definitely beneath the sort of company Caffrey had preferred to keep in New York or New Orleans. By and large these were rough men off the ranch, enjoying their earnings to the fullest and rowdiest extent, liberally calling out colorful phrases at every turn of the game. But Neal smiled and nodded and chuckled like this was the class he'd been born to. One by one, he began to charm them out of their money, fleecing by degrees as opposed to vast sums. Chairs began to get shoved back with more feeling as men left the table with oaths, scowls, and less to burden their pockets.

The remaining players narrowed into a quieter, more focused group of half-a-dozen. Two went all in, and lost, leaving four, including Neal. Then there were only three remaining hunched over their cards.

Exchanging a glance with Jones, Peter took out his pipe. As he prepared it and took his first draw, he contemplated the two men left in the game with Caffrey. It was entirely possible tonight would be just the first of several such endeavors. But Peter's instincts told him otherwise. One of these two men _was_ Bell, and judging by the steely look of growing resolve in Neal's eyes, he knew which one of them it was.

One of the men had his back to them, making it impossible for Peter to accurately assess him. The other was nondescript enough to fit the bill. But even if the lighting were better, and even if the man didn't have his head bent studiously over his hand of cards, there was nothing definitive to be said yet.

The agency might pride itself on keeping records of wanted criminals, down to the last detail—and, when possible, replacing unreliable sketches with damning photographs—but Bell was still relatively new and unknown: a reputation without a face. Hughes had sent Peter to Nevada for the express purpose of catching men like this, who thought they were beyond the reach of the law. Elizabeth had agreed upon the temporary relocation because she believed in the importance of what he did, and in his ability to do the work. Peter hoped she was right.

What Peter did know about Bell was that what his signature crimes lacked in finesse they more than made up for in decisiveness. Three train robberies, and not a single direct witness left alive to tell any tales. Bell and his men were quick to pull the trigger, unhesitating, if not eager, to kill. And that was what made what they were doing now about more than preventing the loss of more money.

They knew that a man fitting Bell's description had been spotted at local brothels and saloons two or three days before each train robbery occurred. He had a preference for the poker table and could drink enough whiskey to make most men stagger off half seas over, while he came out meaner but still dead sure with a pistol. Those traits of careful planning and conflicting temper and vice were what they were counting on tonight, more than any distinctive physical attributes.

As for the number and nature of Bell's cohorts, things were even sketchier. But if the man they were gathering information on was indeed Bell, then he didn't seem to feel the inclination to spend his time at the saloon in their company. In fact, he seemed to find his own company preferable to most.

And, worst of all, all that information was full of guesswork as to whether or not the “suspicious stranger” people supposed to be Bell really _was_ Bell.

What worried Peter the most about Bell was his predilection for killing without hesitation—and not just in the course of robbery. Bilked or defeated fairly, he didn't stand for losing heavy cash at the tables. Or else it was just coincidence that the winners of a number of pots Bell had “contributed” to had been found dead in the ally out back of the saloon the morning after, badly beaten, throat slit.

Peter had seen his share of impulsive men, out on the shoot, spoiling for an excuse to resort to violence. That was his growing impression of Bell. Though it was injustice to both Caffrey's intelligence and his distaste for bloodshed, in many ways Bell's flagrant attitude reminded him of Neal. Neal had always played to the gallery with daring that was just on the cunning edge of recklessness.

However, unlike Bell and his domineering expressions rage and prowess, Neal had been more like a kid brother during the law’s pursuit of him—a brilliant one who was both proud already of what he could do, and desperate to prove that he could do a whole lot more. He'd been like a kid who would do anything to make sure all eyes were on him. Peter hadn't known whether to be flattered or annoyed when he'd gradually found himself becoming the audience of one at the Neal Caffrey theater. Apparently, in that clever and confoundedly mystifying brain of his, Neal had decided that Peter's opinion of him mattered. Only Neal would go on from that decision to doggedly try to beleaguer Peter into an early grave. By a broad array of sanity-defying stunts, Neal had at least succeeded in giving him more than one gray hair. Even before they'd become unconventional partners in _stopping_ crime, Peter had followed a trail of blood-spattered ground from the scene of one of Neal’s more spectacularly ill-conceived stunts and prayed to God he wouldn't find a corpse at the end of it.

All and all, Neal Caffrey was the best and the worst outlaw Peter had ever encountered. The best, because he was equipped with a mind that would've carried him to the top of his “profession,” and the worst because he would never possess the ruthless determination required to sink to the level of men like Bell in order to do exactly that. When all was said and done, Neal Caffrey simply wasn't a killer.

For that very reason, however, Peter worried at times like the present. No one could accuse Neal Caffrey of being naive to the ways of the world, or blind to the kind of violence that was everyday fare for some people. But Peter wondered sometimes if Neal really understood that someone like Bell _would shoot him_ , without hesitation, and without remorse. Neal's silver tongue might be his best weapon, but only when he was given the chance to use it. Though Neal wore a pistol, it had never been a part of his escape plan in all the years Peter had hunted him. Although Peter knew for a fact that Neal was as fast on the draw as any man, and precise with his aim, Peter had never seen him use that skill to kill a man, even in self-defense. Half the time Neal treated a well-made pistol more like an accessory than a tool. He'd lost count of the times he'd caught Neal unloading the chambers of his pistol, holstering his useless gun with cavalier smile that dared Peter to comment.

Needless to say, Peter had seen to it himself that Neal was wearing a loaded weapon tonight—and Neal was presently under strict orders not to win this round in the end, no matter how tempting it might be. Not that Peter was about to let Neal wander down any dark alleys alone after they were through here.

“Boss,” Jones drew his attention back.

“I see it, Jones.”

Neal and the now lone-standing player were talking in undertones to one another. Peter could just make out Neal's expression, which had gone from fluidly good-humored to reserved politeness. But, Peter noted with relief, his companion was the one triumphantly raking in the money. The stiffness on Neal's part was no doubt an act, to convince his audience he hadn't meant to lose. Not that Caffrey ever had to _pretend_ he didn't enjoy losing.

“Should we move in?”

Reluctantly, Peter shook his head. Aside from instincts and wishful thinking, they had no proof this was Bell, and he had no intention of getting his evidence by means of rushing Bell, forcing him to start a shoot out right then and there. _If_ there were none of Bell's men present, they had him vastly outnumbered with Jones and himself inside, and Merriman and his deputy waiting and ready outside. But Peter wasn't going to take any risks when Neal and the other patrons of the saloon were the ones mostly likely to pay for it if things fell apart.

Neal and their presumed train robber stood from their game, to all appearances on cordial terms. Bell even clapped a hand on Neal's shoulder, saying something under his breath in a friendly, conspiratorial way.

At first it looked like Bell was steering Neal towards the bar for round of celebratory drinks. But after slamming a handful of cash down on the table and offering the barkeep hearty thanks, Bell kept on walking, and Neal with him.

“Merriman sent his deputy to the back entrance.” Peter knew he was trying to reassure himself as much as Jones. “We'll follow as soon as those two are out of sight.”

“Do you think Neal's managed to strike some sort of deal with him?”

“We'll know soon enough.”

Peter would've given his left hand to have some way to communicate with Neal at times like this—some way to know what was going on, and whether or not the risk of rushing in outweighed the risk of letting things run their course.

He reassured himself with the knowledge that it was next to impossible that Bell could know that Neal worked for the agency. Neal's status with the Pinkertons was still in trial status, and divulged only on a strict need-to-know basis. Out here, those who might recognize Caffrey had no reason to believe he was not still on the run from the law.

The sound of gunfire ripped Peter from his thoughts, and put him fully into motion. Jones was right beside him as they ignored the responses of the other patrons and rushed for the back door.

They both heard the pounding of hooves before they flung door open and ran out into the choking dust. The only person in view was the deputy, sprawled on the ground with a growing red stain to the back of his head.

Jones ran to get the horses while Peter crouched down next to the deputy and tried to staunch the blood flow. The deputy roused at the touch, moaning and trying to sit up. By the time Jones returned, he was waving Peter on, insisting he was fine.

But haste was ultimately a lost cause. Bell was practiced in eluding pursuers, and the head-start he'd gotten was enough time for him to choose a path that crossed Main Street. There, one dust trail was covered by dozens of other dust trails left by cart and casual passerby on horseback. There were plenty of people milling about, certainly, but by the time Peter had a gotten a clear answer out of a woman (who Peter could only hope was talking about the same two men on horseback that he was talking about) the trail was even colder. North of town—the direction she had pointed him—was rocky, unforgiving desert, punctuated by the occasional shrub or cactus.

There no sight or sound of Bell and Neal—and only a few _dozen_ sets of tracks, leading off in an assortment of directions, to choose from.

***

“Dear God,” Higgins exclaimed, “and Bell took Caffrey with him? You must find them, and quickly.”

Peter drained his glass of water, slamming it back down on the table with just barely less force than would've been required to shatter it. There were other things he was having a hard time not shattering. Namely, Higgins. The man clearly enjoyed the sound of his voice, whether he had anything useful to say or not. But it was more than that. Peter had a growing suspicion at the back of his mind—a suspicion he couldn't keep from voicing a minute longer.

But before he could speak, Higgins continued: “Of course...there may be less danger to your man than one would think. I hate to be so blunt, Agent Burke, but have you considered the possibility that Caffrey's loyalty may be for sale? As distasteful as it is to say it, you must admit that it entirely possible that Caffrey is not the unwilling victim you imagine him to be.”

Merriman chose that crucial moment to enter the small sheriff’s office, saying, “The doctor says that blow Greg took to the head looks a lot worse than it really is...” he trailed off as he caught on to the tension in the room, looking from Peter, to Higgins, to Jones, who stood beside Peter with an expression as frigid as his boss's, and then finally back to Peter again.

“You ready to head out again, Peter?” he inquired tentatively. “Fresh horses are waiting.”

“First, we need to decide upon our next course of action,” Peter replied, still scrutinizing Higgins. “And before we do that, I think we need to consider the possibility of a traitor in our midst. Somehow, Bell figured things out. But Caffrey doesn't do _accidental_. He's too careful, and too practiced. I saw the way he was playing his hand.” Literally, and figuratively.

Relief dawned prematurely on Higgins’ face. “Then you agree—he must have betrayed us all. He's in on the robbery now. He must be. There's really no other explanation...”

“Oh, there's another explanation, all right,” Jones muttered.

“You warned Bell we were on to him,” Peter spoke bluntly. “You told him we'd be there tonight.”

The way Higgins’ face instantly became pinched with repressed guilt was comical. He gave up more easily than a conscientious child trying to hide stolen candy behind his back. But he had his excuses—so many, in fact, the words formed a log-jam on their way out before he managed, “Bell is ruthless, a ruthless _killer_. He twisted my arm. He would have killed me without a second thought if I hadn't agreed to help him. Cooperating with him was my only option, you must believe me.”

Peter stepped forward, close and personal, fully emphasizing and relishing the height advantage he had on Higgins. “Where do Bell and his men hide out?” He cut off Higgins’ bleat of protest before the lies were halfway out of the man's mouth, emphatically demanding: “ _Where_?”

Higgins was a sweating mess. “I'm...I'm not sure I could give you directions. It was only the one time that I was there, and I hardly took notes or—”

“You'll remember, Tom,” Merriman said levelly, with a cold, flat quality to his tone that was anything but reassuring. “ _Won't_ you? You've always had an excellent memory.”

“Y-yes...yes, Robert. Of course I'll remember.” Higgins straightened what little spine he possessed, nodding his acquiescence as if he'd just struck a bargain instead of simply taking the only option held out to him. “I begin to remember, as we speak. Come, I'll show you the way, Agent Burke.”

Merriman met Peter's eye gravely. “I'll get an extra horse.”

***

Merriman also gathered a few extra men, and they filed out in silent order. It went against every instinct Peter possessed to not only bring Higgins with, but put him up front, deciding on their direction.

But Higgins stayed focused and obedient. Just when Peter was beginning to think Higgins had indeed been telling the truth when he claimed he wouldn't be able to retrace the route, Higgins drew to halt, hissing: “There's an old barn, just the other side of that rise. That's the place.”

After that, Higgins begged to stay put, and Peter let him. It went against his better judgment, but Jones had already seen to it that the man wasn't armed—and it went against Peter's judgment even more to bring Higgins _into_ a fight.

They spread out, Merriman taking two men and approaching from the right, and Peter and Jones approaching on the left, pistols drawn.

Peter was inching along the side of the barn when Bell's voice called out: “We hear you, _Detective_! Stealth isn't exactly your strong suit, now is it?”

“Maybe not,” Peter called back. “But I can assure you I know how to aim a gun and pull the trigger.”

“No doubt, no doubt!” Bell returned. “I've heard about you, Burke. You aren’t some sissified city boy. But unless you want your man in here to come to an unfortunate end, I'd suggest you order your men out there to back right on off.”

“I can't do that, Bell!” Peter kept inching towards the front of the barn. He reached the corner, peering around to see Merriman mirroring him on the other side. “If you're a smart man, Bell—which I believe you are—then you'll surrender yourself and save a lot of bloodshed.”

Bell laughed. “There ain't no other way for this to end, Burke. As a smart man, yourself, you know that just as well as I do. But I'm not going to be the only swinging before this is over.”

Worse than being foolhardy, Peter could tell from Bell's voice that he was speaking as man who knew he was cornered but didn't intend to sell his life cheaply. Neal's only hope lay in fast action. Nodding to Merriman, Peter and Jones edged toward the door.

Bell's men started firing before they'd even opened the door—thankfully, with blind inaccuracy. Nodding to Merriman, they each took a door as he mouthed a countdown to three and they pulled at once. A bullet grazed Peter's forearm. He grimaced and kept moving.

Shootouts were always an inexplicable contradiction: happening so fast you were left to the mercy of your reflexes, and at the same time certain moments seemed to slow to a crawling pace that gave you precious seconds of clarity. In this case, fast reflexes meant Peter shot instead of _being_ shot. Time-stopping clarity came in the moment he saw Neal, dangling from the rafters by a noose.

From there, panic took over. Even while his backup flooding in around him to finish off the raid, reason would have demanded he help contain the situation with Bell first, securing his own safety. But Peter shoved reason aside, holstering his pistol in favor of grabbing Neal's legs, pushing up with all his strength to support Neal's weight, and shouting for Jones.

Jones swore like Peter had never heard him swear as he hurried to his aid, righting one of the several chairs that littered the dusty interior of the barn and standing on it in order to reach the rope above Neal's head and take his knife to it, slicing it cleanly.

Peter was braced to catch Neal, lowering him to the floor and hurrying to remove the rope. Jones used his knife to free Neal's hands.

“Come on, Neal, _come on_...”

The moment where Peter actually feared Neal was dead lasted the space of a few seconds. But it was enough time for dread to settle into the pit of his stomach, and for images of Elizabeth's reaction to the news of Neal's death to begin to play in his mind's eye. The fear of potential loss hit him like a ten-ton load of bricks.

And then Neal started to gasp for air, coughing raggedly and clutching at his throat with newly-freed hands. Drawing in a few deep breaths of his own, Peter patted Neal's shoulder—because the alternative would have been to give into a different emotion, and grab him and shake him until his teeth rattled. That, and a thorough chewing out, would have to wait until Neal stopped looking so pale, battered, and drained of life.

But Neal wasn't completely stripped of _fight_. His hand shot out, grabbing Peter by the front of his coat, and Peter gazed for several seconds full into the face of his panic.

“Hey, buddy. Welcome back.”

Panic faded as recognition and cognizance returned, but Neal kept his hand fisted in Peter's shirt with nothing short of desperation.

Peter could sense Jones dealing with the chaos around him. He knew he should be the one dealing with it. He made no move to disengage Neal's death grip. Jones would understand. Merriman would understand. “It's okay, Neal. I've got you, partner.”

“I think maybe I'll start using that gun like you keep telling me to,” Neal whispered in a voice that hurt to listen to.

“What?” Peter chuckled, with released tension, “You mean for something other than dress-up?”

“T'shoot Bell,” Neal asserted with convincing vehemence, despite his hoarseness. He coughed, then moaned, curling in on himself a little. If the bruise on his cheek was any indication, Bell had roughed him up at some point. Neal wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. He relinquished his hold on Peter. “Tell me he didn't get away.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder, finally taking stock of the casualties. One of Merriman's men had been shot in the leg, and while clearly suffering from pain and blood-loss, he was conscious enough to be propped upright against a bale of hay and bandaged up. Several more men—theirs, or Bell's, he couldn't be sure from his angle—were on the ground being seen to, or possibly they were dead already. And then there was Bell, writhing on the floor with a hand clutched to his arm, and Merriman squatting next to him. While he was tearing a piece of cloth into a makeshift bandage, his expression promised he was in no danger of turning into an angel of mercy and light on Bell's behalf.

“No,” Peter informed Neal. “He's not going anywhere. But get that idea out of your head,” he added, leaning in closer, “I've got first claim on shooting that one should the opportunity arise.”

Neal grunted his opinion of that.

“He could've killed you, kid, and just to spite me for coming after him,” Peter said gruffly. He felt almost as washed out as Neal looked. “He nearly _did_ kill you.”

“I noticed.”

“Yeah, well. I'm not likely to forget it soon.”

“I didn't think you went in for revenge.” Neal produced a tired, but fully rakish smile. “Lawman.”

“Right,” Peter agreed, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “I'll just be saving the hangman some rope.”

“Peter...”

“Hey, shut up, will you? Let me take care of this. Trust me.”

Neal blinked sluggishly at him once before letting his eyes drift shut with a sigh.

***

It was a day since everything had gone down with Bell—almost exactly a day, with the sun riding low in the sky, now, just about like it had when they'd marched Bell into town.

And Peter was unsettled. Restless. Justice had been done, and _yet_... It felt as if his own, personal sense of justice had yet to alight on a satisfying object. Maybe he wasn't being honest with himself, and it was unsatisfied vengeance gnawing at him. Maybe that was why Merriman's news, that Bell had made a suicidal attempt at escape, and succeeded—in committing suicide at the end of Merriman's gun—set so wrong with Peter. He didn't delude himself that the sense of wrongness came from wishing Bell had survived to see a hangman's noose. No, if anything, he'd been thinking it should have been him in Merriman's place, pulling the trigger.

Maybe that was what was gnawing at him more than anything. That, or the fact that Higgins was going to come out of the ordeal alive. He'd made his own escape attempt while Peter and the rest of the men had gone after Bell, but he hadn't gotten far with no water, and only his own town to go back to unless he traveled for days. Really, Peter thanked him for the attempt. It only helped to seal the case against him, that he'd been in on Bell's plans out of greed more than fear, though perhaps it was easy to imagine both emotions had played their part. There would be repercussions. Jail time, certainly, if the circuit judge was any good at all.

None of that knowledge proved the consolation it should've been to Peter. He was a lawman. This was justice. What's more, he didn't make a habit of living in a world of “what-if”s. Neal hadn't died. The doctor had pronounced him bruised and banged up, but not in any danger. What's more, none of Merriman's volunteers had died, either.

Peter tried to dwell on that, instead of the dissatisfied anger that was making the idea of a few shots of whiskey at the bar looking entirely too tempting. He'd said his piece to Higgins, and that was that. His job was over. Now it was up to the law—or the hand of God, whichever came first.

So Peter strode the now-quieting stretch of main-street, walking past the bar without turning aside. It was the main establishment of its kind in town, not the dirty hole they'd found Bell in, and he wouldn't deny that the laughter and light beyond the swinging doors was inviting. But he had somewhere even more inviting to be. Let Jones enjoy a bachelor's unconstrained life for the two of them. They both knew that at the end of the day a man would be an idiot to wish away what Peter had in favor of a couple of drinks and a game of cards.

The house he'd rented for himself and Elizabeth was small but comfortable. At least Elizabeth insisted it was, though he'd seen the set of her mouth when she'd first laid eyes on the simple rooms of the building, which was little more than a four-room cabin—if you included the storage in the loft as a “room.” But she'd set to finishing off the basic furnishing already provided, using her own “city” touch to make their temporary home less rough and rudimentary.

Satchmo was having the time of his life. Elizabeth informed him that the dog had already caught a rabbit, and been thoroughly disappointed when she hadn't wanted it after he'd gotten through shaking it in his mouth, and pawing it around in the dirt.

Now, as Peter opened the door, Satchmo bounded up from the hearth with bark of delight. He could hear the sounds of Elizabeth working in the kitchen in back.

Neal looked up with a smile of greeting from where he lay on the couch, covered under a large quilt. He was using his bent knees as an impromptu easel to prop his pad of drawing paper against, a piece of thin charcoal dangling from between two fingers—like a cigarette—as if he'd been more busy contemplating than actually drawing. There was a smudge of charcoal on his jaw that made Peter smile, himself. It was an attitude Peter had seen him in before: staring at the potential of blank paper like the thought process of considering creation was a pursuit in and of itself. Privately, he wondered if Neal unconsciously gathered the tools of an artist around him for a comfort, regardless of whether he actually intended to make use of them, in the same way that Elizabeth had a habit of brewing unnecessary pots of tea whenever emotions ran high—hers, or others.

But as Peter drew close to the warmth of the fire, with one hand absently scratching Satchmo behind the ears, he saw that Neal had indeed been drawing. He recognized a scene from the wharfs of New Orleans at once. He also recognized the two figures, walking side by side, though their backs were to their audience.

“We'd walk by the river for hours, late into the night. Sometimes all night.” Neal's voice sounded better than the last time they'd talked, but still rough.

Peter hardly knew what to say. Mention of Kate usually earned him stubborn silence from Neal, at best. That particular betrayal would be a sore subject for a long time to come, mostly because Neal would never admit it had been a betrayal. He'd keep looking for Kate, whether or not she wanted to be found, and as much as Peter felt for Neal he genuinely prayed Neal never succeeded in finding her, since he felt certain it would only be to have his heart broken all over again.

Neal must've regretted saying anything now. He sighed heavily, flipping the pad shut before Peter could say anything, commenting with clear disgruntlement, “Whatever the doc gave me, it's making me maudlin.”

Peter grunted noncommittally. Let him have his excuses. He wasn't going to hound the kid about anything right now. “How's the neck?” He nodded towards the bandage that covered the red mark left by the rope.

“Ironically, not as bad as the ribs. Swallowing's not going to be fun for a while, though.”

Elizabeth entered just then—with a pot of unnecessary tea in hand. Or perhaps it wasn't so unnecessary, after all. All of the sudden, as the soft, earthy smell of good black tea hit him, it sounded like the perfect remedy for the day. Elizabeth pressed him down into a chair, setting the pot down on the mahogany side table and leaning down to give him a kiss.

“You look exhausted, honey. Let me go get the cups.” She insisted on taking his gun and coat to hang up on her way, coming back a few minutes later with a tray to serve the tea. She added lemon to Peter's cup, and honey and a drop of cream to Neal's, without needing to ask either of them. Preparing herself a cup without bothering to add anything, she settled into the chair next to Peter's with satisfaction on her face. “I think I may begin to appreciate the casual regard for fashion women have here. No need to arrange your skirts every time you sit—no need to worry about the dust and dirt. Indeed, I think I'd feel odd too be too particular in either regard.”

“But if you need anything new, El, you know that...”

She smiled over the rim of her cup. “I'm not trying to guilt you with some hidden agenda, dear. I mean what I say.” She ran a hand over the simple blue material of her dress. “It's comfortable, and infinitely more practical I quite enjoy the change. Perhaps when we return to New York, I'll scandalize all our friends by setting some trends of my own.”

“Still, I wish there was something for you to do—”

“—I've had too much to do for months. Arranging Rose's wedding was a nightmare, and the farewell dinner, which I was all but blackmailed by Margery into hosting—for _myself_ —about drove me out of my head.” She leaned in to put a hand briefly on Peter's arm. “For the time being, I'm content, Peter, even grateful for the break. What's more, I was trying to be diverting, not difficult. Now,” she leaned back again, cradling the bowl of her cup in both hands, “tell us all the news.”

Peter told them about Bell, and about Higgins and his probable fate. Neal seemed to take it a whole lot better than Peter had, nodding and sipping at his tea, as if Peter was reading him a report on the weather.

“That's that, then” Neal said, after a silence had fallen. “I can't say I'm surprised about Bell. He was a coward when it came down to it. I saw it on his face when he heard you outside the barn. He was desperate not to face a hanging.”

“Not his own,” Peter said tersely.

Neal's hand drifted up to the bandage at his throat. “Can't say I blame him.”

“Well _I_ can.”

“Criminals still surprise you, don't they?” Neal asked with a soft smirk.

Sometimes Neal's fathomless ability to recover his bravado irked. There was still a spark of rage ready to blaze every time Peter thought about men like Bell, or men like Higgins, and what pursuing them could cost. He'd considered long ago the sacrifice Elizabeth made, watching him risk his life day in and day out. But every time he came close to losing men like Jones, or Merriman, or Neal, that was when justice asked a cost he didn't always feel prepared to pay. But he hadn’t needed to pay, not today.

The fire was crackling, Satchmo was asleep on the hearth, and Elizabeth was watching both of them fondly. And Peter found he wasn't angry anymore. He shook his head with self-bemusement, finally answering, more to himself then to Neal, “I'm learning every day, kid. I'm learning every day.”


End file.
